Like leaning against the fence in the paddock area,
watching the number seven horse toss his head,
fight the reins,
all that tight energy.
The only gray in the race.  30-1 odds.
I’m too jittery to bet on a long shot (surely
a waste of money), and disgusted when he wins,
almost my car payment.

Now I attend an artist’s reception, single out
a painting that keeps drawing my eye:
pastel rendering of a jockey atop his horse,
the trainer still holding the reins.
Part impressionist, part abstract, part cubist.
It has soft intimacy, bold orange accents.
The artist is describing
how she hangs out at Keeneland, hoping
to catch the right pose, the right light;
how she tries to convey emotion
using the angle and curve of her lines.
She can see how taken I am with the piece,
senses her odds for a sale are good.
I bet on myself.
And tonight, we both become winners.